Calendar
by Aemilia
Summary: HouseWilson. A mostly fluffy examination of their relationship over the course of a year.
1. January

**A/N:** House/Wilson- this chapter only mildly, but later chapters more so. Only sort of beta'ed. (I need a beta, see profile for more info).

**January 1st, 2:47 am**

One of the larger conference rooms had been transformed into a slightly kitschy silver and white wonderland. Ice sculptures decorated the buffet table and tinsel adorned every surface that would stand still long enough. But seeing the ordinary room transformed didn't even begin to rival the weirdness of seeing his coworkers decked out in their festive best, leaving behind the scrubs and lab coats for evening gowns and tuxes. Wilson had never much cared for office parties; there was always something vaguely unsettling about them. No one could quite forget that these people were their colleagues, that their boss was watching and that their reputation was still at stake. Well, almost no one…

"_Wastin' away again in Margaritaville…searchin' for my lost shaker of salt!" _

Wilson had to give House credit; what he lacked in singing ability he made up in volume. Though judging by the sidelong looks and outright stares, most of the PPTH staff disagreed. Wilson didn't know why they were surprised at the display; he would have thought they'd be used to House's antics. At least now he was away from patients and not on the clock. Everyone was allowed to misbehave at the New Year's party. Some more than others.

"Take it away, Jimmy!" House threw an arm around his shoulder and raised his cane as if to conduct. Wilson staggered under the unexpected weight, and then righted them both. He spared an apologetic smile for their audience. House didn't have any work relationships to maintain, but Wilson rather hoped to leave the soiree with most of his intact.

"Um, thanks but no thanks. There's no way I can match your dulcet tones."

House nodded seriously. "So true. Fine, then get us a drink!" He nearly clocked a passing obstetrician with an expansive wave of his cane.

"I think maybe we've had enough to drink." Wilson tried to maneuver them over to the nearest table, which was made a touch difficult since House was refusing to help in the slightest.

"Nonsense. This is New Year's. It's practically our duty to get absolutely plastered. Because nothing gets a year off to a good start like a roaring hangover." Wilson got House settled into one of the chairs with minimal leg-jostling, and sunk into the chair next to him, hoping that House would be content to sit for a while. A hope that was, as per usual, completely in vain. Three sexist comments and a sports-inspired rant later, House rose awkwardly, nearly tipping the chair over backward.

"Wilson, I'm ready to blow this joint." He fished his keys out of a pocket, brandishing them in what was probably supposed to be an onwards-type gesture.

Wilson made a grab for them, successfully snagging them from House's grasp. "Not a chance. You're in no condition to drive." He stashed the keys in his own pocket, twisting to avoid the recovery attempt; considering House's coordination right now, there was no telling where those grasping hands could end up. "I'm going to call you a cab. You _will_ wait here." As if orders ever had any effect on House.

"Sure thing." House gave a mock salute. He was definitely wearing that mischievous expression that invariably meant trouble. Wilson considered; even if he called a cab and managed to manhandle House into it, there was no way he could prevent House from telling the driver to turn around once Wilson was out of sight. He knew from personal experience that even when drunker than a skunk House could almost always pass for sober if he put his mind to it. Wilson didn't want to know how he'd gotten the practice.

"Dammit." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Fine, I'm going to take you home."

"Take me home?" House purred. "Shouldn't you at least buy me dinner first?" A couple of the ICU nurses looked at them sharply as House's voice carried and Wilson reddened, which probably just confirmed their suspicions.

"I buy you dinner all the time and haven't gotten any yet," he pointed out.

"Don't mind him," House told the nurses. "He's just sexually frustrated."

"Not just sexually," Wilson muttered under his breath.

Thankfully the long halls of the hospital were dim and empty and they made it Wilson's car without major incident, though Wilson was sure House was making an effort to be difficult, practically forcing Wilson to carry him. He helped House into the passenger seat, confiscating the cane and throwing it in the back seat after the third time House 'accidentally' jabbed him in the ribs with it.

Wilson kept a careful eye on House on the way to his apartment. House could hold a remarkable amount of alcohol, but Wilson wasn't willing to risk a vomit-drenched dashboard on that. But House seemed in remarkably good spirits, keeping a lively, if somewhat one-sided dialogue that may or may not have been about allegory in _Gormenghast_. Wilson wasn't sure, busy as he was avoiding other drivers who'd clearly had too good a time at whatever party they were leaving, but whatever it was, House definitely felt strongly about it.

At House's apartment, he left the cane in the car. He could run back for it later, and House was in no shape to use it now anyway. And though he'd never admit it, it gave him an excuse to hang onto House a little longer. Greg had never been affectionate kind of guy; he kept people as distant physically as he did emotionally. Punches on the arm were okay, but anything not masquerading as violence was off limits. Except for times like this, when alcohol was providing a comfortable buffer. Wilson lived for times like this.

He waited patiently, ignoring the bitter cold as House fumbled with his keys.

"Want to come in?" House said casually enough, perhaps he wasn't as far gone as Wilson had thought.

Wilson hesitated. "No, I should get back."

"What? Planning on going back to the party and picking up one of the interns?"

"No." Wilson checked his watch; it was almost six. "They've all left by now anyway." He said it just to annoy House.

"Then come in, have one last drink."

"That's okay, as much fun as watching you pass out is…"

"What, you're going to risk me choking on my own vomit?"

"House. It's fucking cold. At this point, I'm _hoping_ you'll choke on your vomit. Wouldn't that be ironic, you choking by your own bile?"

"Mmm, very," House agreed. "But then who would you feel morally superior to? You have to keep me around; you look too good by comparison."

"Fine." Wilson grimaced, knowing that this argument would end like all of their arguments and he would cede, might as well cut the time he spent freezing his ass off short. "But only one drink."

But in the way it usually did, one drink rather quickly became two, then three and Wilson quickly caught up to House. They sprawled on House's couch, watching late night television until it became early morning television.

Happy New Year.


	2. February

**A/N:** If not knowing the year this fic is set doesn't bother you, skip this note. If it does, keep reading. Though I always knew this fic was set in the future, I didn't want to commit to a year for a couple reasons. If I set it immediately after season two, season three will rather quickly render the fic AU. The other is that each chapter will be loosely holiday-themed, and I was considering using several religious holidays that can fall on different months in different years, so I wanted to keep my options open. Anyway, the fic works on the following premises: that it happens in the near future (within five years after season two ends) and that the ketamine treatment eventually failed (which I think we all know it will).

**  
February 14th**

It lay on House's desk, pink and red and unbelievably girly. House picked the envelope up gingerly as though it might bite or explode or something and looked at Wilson, who'd situated himself in the chair across from the desk.

"What is this?" House's voice managed to convey equal parts disgust and annoyance.

Wilson propped his feet up and considered. "Well, knowing you, I'd say it was either hate mail or a death threat, but it certainly _looks_ like a valentine."

House tore the envelope open and examined the card.

"So?" Wilson prompted after a moment. The expression House was wearing was an interesting one; and if it had been anybody other than _House, _Wilson would have said he looked almost embarrassed. House caught Wilson's considering look and quickly schooled his features into a more customary scowl.

"It's nothing. A moronic 'thank you' for being so unbelievably clever as to correctly diagnose a case of whooping cough. I already told her if she wants to show her thanks, she should do it with money or sexual favors. Preferably both." House moved to toss the card in the trash, but Wilson intercepted it, snatching it from House's grasp and dancing out of reach before House could protest.

"Dear House," Wilson read aloud, "I hope this Valentine's Day you will think, however briefly, of me. With Much Affection, Allison. P.S. I'm free this evening.'" Wilson stared at the card a moment longer. "Wow. She's not one to mince words." House reached in his pocket and produced his pill bottle. This was probably going to be a two-Vicodin conversation. "Gotta admire that go-getter attitude."

Wilson turned the card over as if looking for another postscript that revealed the joke.

"But didn't you tell her you weren't interested?" House shrugged in a way that indicated he knew Wilson wouldn't like the answer and took the card back from him; Wilson yielded it without contest. "You can't possibly be thinking of going out with her again. It's such a colossally bad idea. You already know it won't work, hell, you probably don't even want it to."

"So glad I have you here. Clearly you know me better than I know myself."

"She's half your age, House."

"But not too young for you? It that what this is? Some kind of geriatric cock-block?" Wilson froze, his mouth slightly agape. House took it as a sign he was on the right track. "You could have just said you had the hots for her. It'll make it ever so much more satisfying when I nail her. This cock will not be blocked."

"House…" Wilson said half warning, half pleading.

"Surely she's not your type, not nearly needy enough. But then again, if marrying the dying doesn't count as messed up, what does?"

"I'm not interested in Cameron," Wilson said.

"Then why do you care?" House asked, eyes narrowing.

"I…I'm just worried about you. Last I checked it was sort of in the job description as your best friend."

"Bullshit. You're always telling me I need to get some. It's just now that that 'some' might be coming from Cameron that you're worried."

"She's your employee," Wilson pointed out, already knowing the scorn it would earn him.

"Oh, that's rich coming from you. Since when have sexual indiscretions ever been a concern of yours? Actually, I'm surprised you haven't shown more interest in young Cameron. Only a matter of time, I suppose."

"I'm not interested in Cameron," Wilson said again, more vehemently.

House paused, watching Wilson carefully as he stopped to consider and decide upon his next offensive. Wilson breathed a little harder. If House was good at anything it was figuring things out. It had only been because House hadn't bothered to think about things at all that he hadn't figured this out. But now Wilson had given him a reason to consider.

"Who _are_ you interested in, Jimmy?" House's voice was softer now, mildness finding weaknesses sarcasm had missed.

Wilson took a steadying breath and looked House in the eye. "I'm not currently dating."

"Okay," House said, and Wilson relaxed just a bit. "But that's not what I asked. I know you're not dating. I want to know who you're interested in. You've always got your eye on someone. If not Cameron, then who?"

Wilson grimaced. "No one."

"Lying." House's voice was a mocking sing-song.

"Fine then. How about I'm not telling you?" Wilson said, irritation getting the better of him.

"What are we in? The fifth grade?" House said, then affected a school girl's squeal. "Come on, Jimmy, teeeeeell meeeeee, please? I promise not to tell anyone, cross my heart and hope to die." He resumed his usual sardonic tone. "So, one of the nurses? Not still sweet on Debbie in Accounting, are you? It's been months since you've been down to go over spreadsheets."

"House." Wilson sank down into one of the chairs, rubbing his eyes so hard that he saw spots for a few moments afterwards and wondered just how House had maneuvered the conversation from his love life to Wilson's. "Just drop it. I'm not feeling up to this."

"Not up to this?" House sneered. "Then why are you still here? This is my office and you're the one with two good legs. Why don't you use them to walk out? Unless you actually really want to tell me." Wilson really wanted to wipe that smug look off House's face, but trying to do so would just confirm House's suspicions not allay them. House sat down in the chair next to his, leaning in so that their faces were mere inches apart. Wilson kept his gaze stubbornly on his clasped hands and wondered if avoiding House's eyes was more telling than if he met them. After so many years of friendship, House could guess his thoughts to a degree that was downright uncanny. Wilson let the silence stretch out, uncomfortably aware of it and of the question that still hung between them. Finally he pushed away, stood, and walked out. At the door he paused, but didn't look back.

They spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding each other. Or at least, Wilson avoided House; he couldn't say if House was avoiding him too, but he had his suspicions. He tried to get some work done, but as it turned out, House could be just as distracting in his absence as he was in person. Wilson kept replaying their conversation, analyzing and reanalyzing every word, expression and weighty pause. After awhile he graduated to imagining House and Cameron's future relationship. It would end badly, he knew. Cameron would eventually get tired of her pet project, would end things, and then Wilson would be left to pick up the pieces again.

But…what if it did work out? Cameron was beautiful, smart, and had shown a surprising tolerance for House's crap. The thought that the relationship actually could work had simply never occurred to Wilson before and suddenly he felt like a prize fool. House had always shown an uncharacteristic soft spot for Cameron. Maybe she was he needed.

Wilson froze, half-way through reorganizing his desk. He needed to talk to House, and he needed to do it now. House was in none of his regular haunts: empty clinic room, the roof, the maternity lounge. Wilson finally caught him in the parking lot, making an even earlier departure than usual. House ignored his approach, stowing his cane and strapping on his helmet. Wilson stepped in front of the bike, impeding the getaway; House revved the engine in response. Wilson refused to flinch, denying House the satisfaction of a response.

"If this is a game of chicken, I'm so going to win," House said, voice muffled by the helmet. Wilson just settled his hands on his hips, prepared to wait, but it didn't take long for House to cut the engine and pull off his helmet.

"I think you should go out with Cameron," Wilson started without preamble.

House looked momentarily taken aback. "That's a remarkable 180 from this afternoon. Any particular reason for the complete change of heart? And why you couldn't wait to say this?"

Wilson shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his lab coat and wished he'd grabbed his overcoat. New Jersey winters were not conductive to long conversations. Or anything else, really.

"I still don't think it's a good idea, but I understand that it's not really any of my business and you are, at least in theory, a mature adult capable of making his own decisions." Wilson pressed on before House could respond to that. "And if you want to go out with Cameron, well, then, you should go out with Cameron. I'm happy for you."

House digested that. "…Okay. Can I go now?"

"What, that's all you've got to say? Nothing else?"

"That I'm glad I have your permission? Yeah, great, thanks so much." House watched Wilson shiver for a moment. "Are you trying to catch pneumonia? Because if you think I'm going to nurse you through…"

"Don't worry on my account; I come from hardy stock." The fact that his teeth were chattering undermined that statement somewhat. There was a long pause in which neither of them moved and Wilson considered the best treatment for the case of hypothermia he was quickly developing.

"I'm not going on a date with Cameron."

"What?" Wilson said dumbly.

"I'm not going on a date with Cameron," House repeated. "She's too _nice_." The way House said _nice_ made it sound obscene.

"Oh." It was the best Wilson could do under the circumstances. Extreme cold seemed to have an adverse effect on his ability to string together sentences. Or maybe that was just the way House was looking at him now. "Okay, then. Whatever you think is best. I'm going to go in now. Before I lose anything to frostbite."

"You're the idiot who seems to have forgotten how to use his cell phone-"

"I didn't think you'd pick up," Wilson objected.

"-Or leave messages." House rolled his eyes. "I'm glad we had this chat. Now get out of my way. I have a need for speed."

"Among other drugs," Wilson said, but stepped out of the way.

"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd have said you're jealous. And if it's not Cameron you're interested in…"

"That's right," Wilson scoffed. "I am desperately in love with you. Greg, darling, say you'll be mine."

House grinned and nearly clipped him as his bike squealed out of the parking lot, in flagrant disregard of the clearly marked speeding limit. Wilson looked after him for a moment in a way that was definitely, absolutely not wistful and then hurried as quickly as he could on numb feet for the well-heated halls of PPTH.


	3. March

**Chapter Three: March 17th**

The fact that his beer was _supposed_ to be green didn't make it any more appealing. It didn't seem to bother House, however, who was well into his third pint; apparently his distaste for all things festive didn't actually extend to alcohol. The bar was as Irish as you could reasonably expect to get in New Jersey, speakers blaring The Chieftains, and the widescreen TV showing a football match that seemed to mostly be rioting fans.

"Soccer is football," Wilson said, wincing as one player met the field face first. "But is football soccer? And you should probably slow down."

"I don't think they have football. And it's not your fucking business."

"It will be if I get stuck carting your drunken ass around."

"You love my drunken ass."

"Yeah, you're such a charming, lovable drunk."

House grinned and crooked his index finger, beckoning Wilson closer, a conspiratorial expression on his features. Wilson rolled his eyes and obligingly leaned in, just glad that House was electing to whisper whatever obscenity or snarky remark he was thinking rather then shouting it over the din of the bar. He stopped when he'd halved the distance between them. House continued beckoning. Wilson leaned in a little closer. And a little closer.

"House, what? People are going to think I'm about to kiss you." That was, of course, the moment House chose to kiss Wilson. For a moment Wilson failed to react, too busy processing the fact that House's lips were on his. He opened his mouth to complain, protest, say something, _anything_, but House just took it as an invitation to deepen the kiss and then Wilson's tongue had far more interesting things to do than talk. Finally House ended it, sitting back and looking smug while Wilson tried to do some surreptitious clean-up with the back of his hand, praying their little scene hadn't attracted attention.

"Hey, kids, this isn't a gay bar," the barkeep said gruffly. Wilson blushed hotly, so much for going unnoticed.

"Oh, I assure you, it's an extremely gay bar," House said, clearly unruffled. "But I have to say, the green tinsel? So last season."

Wilson grabbed House's elbow and half hauled him off his bar stool and out of the bar before further commentary could be made. House might enjoy an audience, but Wilson did not. The chilly air felt good on his heated cheeks; he took a deep breath to clear his head from the heat and haze of the bar.

"You just kissed me."

"Your powers of observation never cease to amaze," House drawled, looking far more self-possessed than anyone had a right to after a kiss like that.

"_Really_ kissed me," Wilson hissed.

"Oh please, don't look so shocked, princess. You know you wanted it."

Wilson scrubbed his face with his hands in a futile attempt to regain some kind of composure. "House. Is this a joke? Some kind of bizarre test?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" House's tone, though light, held none of its usual mockery.

"I don't know," Wilson confessed. "That's sort of why I'm asking. I swear to God, House, if this is supposed to be funny…"

House pretended to consider. "Well, definitely not in a haha way."

"So, you're serious. About me." Wilson tried to swallow the wad of cotton currently lodged in his throat.

House shrugged dismissively, as if Wilson had just inquired whether or not it was going to rain. "Maybe."

"No, you don't get to say 'maybe' after that. Yes or no." Wilson's voice was a little shriller than he would have liked.

House watched a trio of drunken college boys stagger out of the bar. One of them recognized them and whistled suggestively. House flipped him the bird absently as Wilson blushed anew. He watched the young men retreat down the street only to disappear into another bar on the corner and then turned back to House, who was apparently feeling suddenly taciturn. Well, damned if he was going to beg for an answer. Wilson crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture he hoped conveyed steely frustration and not pissy pique. The standoff continued, only interrupted when they were jostled by the occasional reveler. It was a miserable day for revelry. The sky was a particularly ugly shade of gray and the wind held considerable bite. Wilson had always wondered why they scheduled such a cheerful holiday for such a miserable month. Or maybe that was the point, a bright spot of tasteless good fun in the bleakest stretch of season.

"House." But House seemed wildly interested in passing traffic; he failed to even glance in Wilson's direction. Wilson sighed. "Fine. I'm going. I'll see you tomorrow."

He made it five steps before he heard "Jimmy. Wait." Wilson turned slowly to see House, leaning heavily on his cane, cap pulled down low over his eyes. Grudgingly, he made his way back.

"What?" he didn't bother to hide his irritation, but was surprised when House actually looked chagrined.

"Yes." It took a Wilson a moment to rewind the conversation and figure out what to attach the 'yes' to and by then House was speaking again. "I was serious about the kiss. Unless you don't want me to be, then it was just 'oh, look at that Greg, taking humorous liberties with his best friend. What a card!'"

Wilson gaped, belatedly remembering to shut his mouth. His mind reeled and he suddenly felt dangerously unsteady. House couldn't possibly be saying what Wilson thought he was saying. He opened his mouth to respond, realized he could think of nothing even resembling English to say and closed it again. House looked away, shifting uncomfortably.

"Look, forget it. Apparently green beer is more potent than the non-green variety."

Wilson's reeling brain finally got its gears to work. "No! Er, I mean, if I get a choice, then I think I want you to be serious. If you are serious."

"We sound like teenage girls," House observed.

"Little bit, yeah. So are you serious?"

House took a deep breath, held it for a moment and then released it sharply. "Yeah. I am." He was carefully keeping his attention on anything but Wilson, but kept stealing anxious sidelong glances. Wilson knew the confession had cost his friend dearly. House would rather admit to murder or a highly embarrassing rash than actually having emotions.

"Okay," Wilson said, sidling a little closer. "Now what?" He'd never been in this sort of situation before; with all his wives and girlfriends, he'd been able to coast on charm and good looks. Neither were of particular use to him now.

"Well, how about if I-" House started, but Wilson cut him short, meeting House's lips with his own. He was almost as surprised as he had been the first time, even though he'd initiated. House was so shockingly real. The idle fantasies Wilson had occasionally (or not so occasionally, if he was being honest) entertained always missed the little details: the feel of leather jacket under his finger tips, the scent of House's soap, the rough feel of bristles against his chin… House would have to start shaving if they were going to make a regular thing of this, Wilson decided. After a few moments of tentative exploration, Wilson grew bolder, pulling House hard against him into a full-body contact embrace. House allowed it. Parts of Wilson wondered just how much more House would allow, other parts of him also reminded him that they were currently snogging on a busy sidewalk and that he had an extreme dislike for Inappropriate Public Displays of Affection. Really, he did…

"Get a room!" a passerby yelled, guffawing at their own cleverness.

This time it was Wilson who flipped them off, not bothering to break the kiss. House must be rubbing off on him. At this proximity, it would be hard for him not to.


	4. April

**A/N:** Thanks to my various roomies and Allison for looking over this. **  
**

**April 1st**

Chase, Cameron and Foreman stared at the whiteboard as though the black letters written there might rearrange themselves into an order that made more sense. The message had been written there since Cameron, early as usual, had arrived that morning.

In House's sloppy handwriting two words were written: _For Wilson. _

A strip of condoms was taped next to it. In smaller writing under them it read: _(I got the lube at home)._

"Nope. No way he means it," Chase said, shaking his head emphatically.

Cameron, who was even paler than usual, bit her lip uncertainly. "I don't know. They are awfully close. And it would explain a lot."

"Like what? The fact that he's just not into you?" Foreman said sarcastically, exchanging a significant look with Chase over Cameron's head. "He's just yanking our chains, as usual."

"Why would he want us to think he's _with_ Wilson?" Cameron asked.

"To mess with our heads?" Chase hazarded. "Or possibly to mess with Wilson's. I'm not saying they don't have a screwed-up relationship; I just can't see them sleeping together." He made a face. "I don't think my sanity could handle it if they were."

Foreman nodded his agreement. "Plus, it _is_ April first. This is probably House's idea of a cute prank."

"You guys shouldn't be so judgmental," Cameron said in that slightly self-righteous way she had.

Chase snorted derisively. "Riiiiight, I'm sure you think they're a cute couple."

"Who's a cute couple?" Wilson said walking in, case files in hand. The fellows started guiltily.

"Uh, Tom and Katie," Cameron improvised, steadfastly ignoring the suspiciously giggle-like sound that escaped Chase.

"Oh," Wilson said, obviously without any idea who 'Tom and Katie' were. "Have you kids seen House lately?"

"Hi, Dr. Wilson," Chased started, with artificial cheer, "Why do you need him?"

Wilson blinked. "Do I need a reason?" The complete and total attention of the House's team took Wilson aback; something was up, but he had yet to figure out exactly what.

"No, of course not," Cameron cut in smoothly. "He hasn't been in this morning. And we actually, well…" She took a seat at the long table and Chase quickly followed suit. Foreman busied himself with the coffee maker.

"We assumed he was with you," Foreman finished for her.

"With me? No, I haven't seen him…" He trailed off as he saw the whiteboard and what was written there. He blanched. "Oh my God."

"I told you," Chase said triumphantly. "Joke."

Cameron, who was watching Wilson change from pale to scarlet, said, "I'm not so sure."

Wilson was spared further comment, however by House's timely entrance. With exaggerated force, House threw open the door and made his entrance, evidently full of vim and vigor. "Morning, all." He was cheery in the way he was only when he'd been particularly naughty. "I see you all got my little surprise."

"It is a joke, then," Foreman said, getting annoyed with whatever mind game House was playing.

House removed his motorcycle jacked and flung it down on the table. "Would I joke about a thing like that?" He surveyed the gathered, all of whom were nodding with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Except for Wilson, who looked nauseated. "Guys," House rolled his eyes clownishly, "I thought you knew me better than that. I'd never lie about Wilson and me doing the nasty. The horizontal polka. Playing doctor. Freeing Willy-"

"House." Wilson's voice held a dangerous edge. House looked at him, and after a moment's hesitation, shut his mouth.

"You two are really together?" Cameron's asked, sounding slightly strangled.

"Yes. Do you find that hot?" House said, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. Cameron flushed and stammered a 'no'.

"And you're…gay," Chase said, flinching in a way that suggested he'd just received a sharp kick in the shins under the table. Cameron was giving him a nasty look.

Wilson shifted uncomfortably. "I don't like to really assign labels-"

"Because he's gay," House interrupted. "All that skirt-chasing? An elaborate act so he could get close enough to jump my bones."

"If you let him jump said bones, what does that make you?" Chase challenged, pushing away from the table and out of the range of Cameron's shoe.

House settled himself into one of the conference room chairs and propped his feet on the table with exaggerated care. "I'm experimenting with my sexuality. It's trendy."

Wilson rubbed his temples. "House, would you mind coming with me, please?" House opened his mouth to retort, but Wilson continued. "Unless you want a change of tonight's," he cast a glance at the attentive faces of the fellows, "_activities." _House quickly shut his mouth and got to his feet as fast as he was able. Wilson turned and exited with the stiff footsteps of a man struggling to maintain what little dignity he had left. House followed, but only after he'd snatched the condoms from the whiteboard.

"I'm going to need these," he explained to his incredulous fellows.

"House!" Wilson barked, already out the door.

"He's insatiable," House threw over his shoulder, hurrying to catch the retreating Wilson.

Wilson marched down the halls of PPTH with single-minded determination, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder and make sure House was following. Really, he didn't have to; he could hear House's lopsided gait and the muttered curses of those who didn't get out of his way fast enough. The moment they were alone with the exam room door safely shut behind them Wilson turned to House, setting his hands on his hips. "I _thought_ we'd decided that we weren't going to come out at work."

House perched on the wheeled stool, idly pushing himself back and forth across the floor with no clear destination in mind. "Well, you sure decided that."

"No, I definitely remember _someone_ saying 'Let's keep it on the down low, Jimmy. I don't want you getting any gay on my practice.' And I'm willing to bet that person was you. Certainly sounds like you.'"

House rolled his eyes. "Changed my mind. I'm all with the pride now."

"And yet I don't see any rainbow flags or pink triangles adorning your office."

"They clash with the décor. Aw," House said, changing tactics, "I'm afraid that you're ashamed of me, baby."

"_Duh_," Wilson said explosively. "It was bad enough when I was just friends with a misanthropic bastard, but now that I'm sleeping with him…" Wilson trailed off to let House imagine the horrors of having every nurse, intern, tech and custodian know that he had intimate, carnal knowledge of the single most hated man in the hospital.

"Yeah, so sorry I've gotten in the way of your networking."

"Somehow I very much doubt that." Wilson looked heavenward, as if asking God for strength. "If you wanted people to know that we were-"

"Getting jiggy wit it?" House glanced up from the supply drawer he was rummaging through.

"-Together, you could have just said so."

"Sure. But the look on your face and the look on Cameron's face when she saw the look on your face…" House shivered with delight. "That was fan-fucking-tastic. Wish I'd gotten film of it. It would have been great for youtube." House produced a package of tongue depressors and after a momentary inspection, pocketed them.

Wilson sat on the exam table, the only other place to in the small room. "You know, some people find ways other than humiliation to express their love- what the hell are you going to do with those depressors?" Wilson snapped as House nicked another package.

"I'm trying to build a full-scale model of the Alamo. Have you seen any bandaging tape? I think the nurses are hording it." He slid the drawer closed and moved on to the next one. "And who says I love you?"

Wilson lay back on the table, staring at the uninspired tile of the ceiling. "Oh please, this morning's little prank was you dancing down the hall singing "I Honestly Love You" when translated from Houseian, which, I'll grant you, is not a Romantic language."

"Definitely more Germanic," House agreed, apparently done with his pilfering.

Wilson glanced at his watch and started. "Shit. I've got to go, I've got an appointment." He slid off the table, automatically straightening his clothes.

House caught his wrist before he made it to the door. "So you're not going to be pissy?"

"No more than usual," Wilson answered wryly, placing his free hand over House's but making no effort to remove it.

"No lecture about the importance of trust and personal boundaries?"

Wilson snorted at the idea of House having any kind of personal boundaries whatsoever. "If everyone knows about our relationship, then I guess there's nothing to be done." Wilson adopted the same tone his mother had used whenever he'd volunteered her to man the bake sale in elementary school. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"Our relationship?" House pulled a face.

Wilson gave House one of his best exasperated looks. "Yes, our _relationship_."

"This is a relationship?"

"Yes," Wilson said firmly, "A committed, exclusive relationship." He enunciated each word, daring House to make issue of it.

"What if I don't want it to be?" House was only too happy to oblige.

Wilson shrugged in a way that suggest he really didn't care. "That's tough."

House's annoyance was a poor cover for his amusement. "I don't get a say?"

"Nope," Wilson said cheerfully.

"Mmmrrrrow. I like it when you take charge," House leered, baring teeth in a feral smile.

Wilson pulled him in by the front of his blazer for a short but fierce kiss. "Good. Get used to it."


	5. May

**May 30th**

"I don't have to come," Wilson said, his voice low and earnest. "I understand if you don't want me to be there."

"I want you do be there." House shrugged into his navy blue blazer and checked his reflection in the hall mirror. Only extreme nerves could inspire such vanity, Wilson thought wryly.

"You look good," Wilson said. He reached out to straighten House's collar and let his hands come to rest on House's chest, which rose and fell faster than normal under his splayed fingers. House leaned in, closing the space between them and kissed Wilson softly. Wilson was always surprised how gentle House could be, tender even. He let his body admit what he could never say aloud. Finally, Wilson broke the kiss to check his watch.

"We've got to go. Their flight gets in at 5:30 and with traffic…"

"I know, I know," House grumbled. "Are you sure we can't just abandon them at the airport?"

"No," Wilson scolded, "They're your parents. Besides, they know where you live."

"I could move," House suggested hopefully.

Wilson grinned and grabbed his car keys, ushering House out the door. In the car, House fidgeted more than usual, fiddling with the radio, the window controls, glove compartment and visor.

"House. Stop," Wilson said the third time House changed the station in the middle of a song he particularly liked.

"This is not going to go well," House said, like some prophet of doom.

"No, probably not," Wilson agreed, amiably enough. "But it's only a weekend. We'll get through it."

"If I don't commit seppuku first."

"Ritual suicide? Come on, you're more of a shotgun in the mouth guy." That earned a smirk. "They like me, House, remember? I'm the son they wished they had."

"No, they _liked _you- when we watched football and drank beer."

"We still watch football and drink beer."

"Yeah, but now we sleep together afterwards. You were supposed to straighten me out, not seduce me."

"Hey, I was the seducee not the seducer," Wilson protested.

"Like that's going to make a difference," House snorted. "Mom's going to mince around it, trying to reassure me that she still loves me, while attempting to convince me that I still have options and don't have to resort to you. Dad, God, Dad will harangue me for ruining my life and now yours too. He's so fucking dramatic."

"Now we know where you got it from." Wilson slowed down to let a minivan pull out in front of them.

"I am nothing like him," House spat vehemently.

At the next stoplight Wilson reached under the seat, groping for a moment before he secured a small package. He handed to House, who took it dubiously.

"What's this?" House sounded accusatory, as if Wilson had just offered him a used Kleenex instead of a gift wrapped in cream paper and a pink ribbon.

"It's a Mother's Day gift," Wilson explained patiently.

"Why'd you buy me a Mother's Day gift?"

"It's for your mother."

House's eyes narrowed. "Why'd you buy _my_ mother a gift?"

"I didn't," Wilson said shortly. "You did." Comprehension dawned on House's face. "It's a silk scarf. You have impeccable taste."

"She'll know it's not from me," House said sourly.

Wilson nodded once, eyes on the road. "You'll both pretend."

They managed to avoid talking about anything real waiting for the Houses' luggage and on the way to the restaurant Wilson had reservations at. They discussed the plane ride, traffic, House's latest patient, Wilson's latest patient, and the weather- in that order and everybody taking a turn to comment. The trouble didn't start until midway through their entrees when the conversation inevitably turned to romantic prospects.

"I know Greg has managed to scare them all off, but is there anyone new in your life, James?" Blythe inquired, oblivious to the look of panic that flashed momentarily over her son's face. The scarf was a watercolor wash of blues and purples around her neck. It really was very lovely.

"Well, actually, there is. A rather special someone." Wilson set down his wine glass and exchanged a quick look with House.

"Really?" Blythe said, looking delighted. "Is it serious?"

"Very," Wilson assured her.

"And when do we get to meet this lovely young lady?" Blythe leaned forward, her hands clasped in excitement.

"It's me, Mom," House said quietly.

"What?" Blythe said, clearly confused.

Wilson placed a hand over hers. "Greg and I are together."

For a long moment no one spoke, the clink and chatter of the restaurant becoming disproportionately loud.

"Together?" Blythe echoed faintly.

"Yeah, Mom." House stared into the remains of his salmon.

"Oh."

"I know this may come as something of a surprise, but we hope that you'll be happy for us," Wilson forged on, seemingly prepared to drag them all to a happy accord if it killed him.

"Well, shit." House flinched as his father swore loudly. "That's a helluva thing to pull on your mother and me after we've been through. The attitude, the disrespect, the willful ingratitude for all we've done for you, but this takes the cake."

"Dad," House started.

"You could have at least had the decency to not ruin Mother's Day with this. Your mother was looking forward to this."  
Blythe placed a tentative hand on her husband's arm. "John, it's not important."

Abruptly House rose; their glasses rattled as he upset the table in his haste to get away. "I have to pee," he said flatly. They watched him make his way through the crowed restaurant, awkwardly negotiating the circuitous route to the bathroom.

The senior House turned his baleful expression on Wilson, but only opened his mouth to shovel porterhouse steak into it.

Blythe poked at her baked potato. "It's just…are you sure you're being responsible?"

Wilson looked at her uncertainly. "Pardon?"

"Greg really cares for you and I know he wouldn't ever say this, but he'd do a lot to please you. Are you sure you aren't taking advantage of him?"

Wilson sputtered a moment. "You think I seduced him." He didn't know why he was surprised that House was right. He pushed away from the table and stood. "Your son can look out for himself, Blythe." He turned and stalked after House.

House had locked himself in the last stall, Converse sneakers and cane visible under the door. Wilson knocked tentatively.

"House. I know you're in there."

"I'm taking a crap, let me do it in peace," came House's gruff voice.

"You are not." Wilson pressed his eye to the sliver of space between door and wall. He could just make out House, seated but dressed, his forehead resting on his cane. "There's a limited amount of time you can believably hide in there."

"I'm willing to test that theory."

Wilson banged on the door a couple times. "Come on, let me in." There was a brief silence, then the snick of the lock being turned. Wilson slipped into the stall and shut the door behind him, locking it again. It was testament to just how shitty House felt that he neglected to make a lascivious comment.

"Have they officially disowned me yet?" House asked tiredly. "If you're only with me to get in on the House family fortune, you might want to reconsider."

"Not to worry, I'm only with you for your body. No, they haven't disowned you. And they won't either. They just need some time to get used to the idea. They'll come around." Wilson said it with more conviction than he felt.

"They'll never come around to the idea of their son being a fag."

"They love you."

"Doubt it." House's voice was bitter.

"I love you."

House looked up at that, meeting Wilson's eyes for the first time since he'd left the table. "Don't doubt that." House held Wilson's gaze for a long moment. Finally he sighed, breaking the mood. "Ready to head back into the trenches?" He asked.

"Yeah, are you?" Wilson said and offered House a hand up. House took the proffered hand, letting Wilson pull him to his feet. With them both standing the confined space was even tighter, and Wilson found himself pressed up against the door.

"Almost," House said and stole a kiss, long and passionate; his hands making a fumbling inventory of Wilson's body. When he finally pulled away, Wilson was left breathless and panting. "Alright- _now _I'm ready." House unlocked the door and made a surprisingly quick exit. Wilson trailed after him, stopping to rearrange all that House had disheveled.

"Do you want me to hold your hand?" Wilson offered.

"Try, and I'll bludgeon you to death." House raised his cane threateningly. "Though that would probably please my father."

"Alright, but you better make it up to me later," Wilson said playfully.

House's expression softened, "I will."


	6. June

**June 11th**

Wilson used his key to get into House's apartment. He'd had a copy even before they'd gotten together, but now he actually felt comfortable enough to use it without knocking first. He braced the bag of groceries against his hip and got the key in the door. He'd taken to picking up things from the market on the corner- milk, vegetables, things that didn't come out of a can and weren't sugar-frosted. House mostly refused to eat them, unless Wilson made him, but it was a start. The man still ate like a college co-ed. Wilson secretly envied House's metabolism; he'd had to start cutting back on the coffee-break donuts lately to keep from going up a notch on his belt. Middle age was a bitch.

House was sprawled on the couch, beer in one hand, remote in the other. He eyed the grocery bag with obvious contempt. "That's not more rabbit food is it? Steve can only eat so much of it."

"It wouldn't kill you to eat healthier. Rather the opposite, actually." Wilson started putting away the groceries. The fridge was finally beginning to look less like condiment storage.

"Do you realize how many take-out joints rely solely on me for survival? I can let them down. Hey, while you're in there, grab me a beer." Wilson heard the roar of a television audience, which transitioned abruptly to gunfire as House changed the channel. Wilson grabbed a couple of beers and joined House, who grudgingly moved his feet to make room for Wilson, and promptly plunked them in Wilson's lap. Wilson grimaced, but just twisted off the bottle caps and handed House his beer. House wiggled his toes happily.

"You can rub my feet if you want to."

"Oh, please, can I?" Wilson said sarcastically, catching a big toe and giving it a sharp pinch.

"Yes, but only because I'm feeling magnanimous." House stretch languorously, apparently pleased with himself and the world.

Wilson rolled his eyes, but began to skillfully knead House's aching arches. House sighed, eyes half-closed with bliss. "You're in an awfully good mood. Makes me suspicious. Who'd you terrorize today?"

"Terrorize? Moi? Lies, all of it." He nudged Wilson's thigh in remonstration as Wilson paused in his attentions. "Don't stop. …Mmmmm, good. I'm just relieved I managed to make it through the day without any ill-advised birthday solicitations."

"We thought about a surprise party, but couldn't book the pony rides." Wilson stopped rubbing, this time ignoring House's protest. "Actually, though, you haven't made it quite through yet." He got up, setting House's feet back down behind him.

"Oh, God. What've you done? Please tell me you haven't invited anyone who's not paid to remove their clothing." House threw an arm over his face as though overwhelmed by the thought of human interaction.

"Relax, it's not that bad. And there is no socializing expected from you at all." Wilson made his exit before House could lodge further complaints. He quickly retrieved the box from where he'd stashed it behind the vacuum in the hall closet- the one place House was sure not to stick his nose. He returned to the living room feeling apprehensive. He'd agonized for months about what to get House. When asked what he wanted, House invariably answered 'porn,' 'a midget with pointy shoes' or would suggest Wilson do something obscene and that required more flexibility than Wilson had possessed in years.

"Happy birthday," Wilson said, proffering the package. It was a long and narrow box, white with a dark blue ribbon tied in a bow around the middle. House stared at it as if it were a particularly obscure blob on an MRI scan. "Go on. Take it. Don't worry; I don't actually expect you to have a happy birthday."

Finally, House sat up and accepted the package, laying it across his knees. Deft fingers made quick work of the ribbon and carefully lifted the lid. There lay a cane, more ornate than any of the few House owned; the body was rich rosewood with an elegantly worked silver head. Gingerly, he lifted it out, running his finger tips down the dark wood, face inscrutable. Wilson watched breathlessly, realizing now that he'd made a huge mistake.

After the seeming success of the ketamine treatment, House had tossed his collection of canes. It had been uncharacteristically optimistic of him, as if by cutting his safety line he could force the treatment to succeed. He'd hobbled around for weeks when the pain slowly but inevitably returned, unwilling to acknowledge that his body had betrayed him a second time.

It had taken an embarrassing collapse in the cafeteria for House to finally admit defeat. Wilson had stolen a cane from one of the physical therapists to use the rest of the day, then taken him to get his own after work. It was the first time since the infarction Wilson had seen House near tears. Wilson had found an excuse- made up an excuse- to stay with him that night. Just in case. But House hadn't drunk himself into a stupor, hadn't pushed the limits of his Vicodin dosage. He'd just gone to bed, staring at the ceiling and ignoring Wilson whenever he checked in on him. The next morning they'd gotten up and gone to work, the cane once again part of the landscape and the ketamine treatment never to be talked about again.

"The top screws off," Wilson said finally, trying desperately to decipher House's expression. House looked at him briefly, then twisted the handle off and slid the saber hidden within free. "It's not as sharp as your acerbic wit, but it could do some damage."

House brandished the sword experimentally, the corner of his mouth slowly quirked in a grin.

"You're not going to take that to work," Wilson admonished.

House pointed it at him and grinned. "Try and stop me."

Wilson slapped his forehead in comic chagrin. "Cuddy's going to kill me. Please, at least promise me you won't threaten patients."

Laughing, House raised his right hand, "I solemnly swear not to threaten my patients unless they really, really, really deserve it. Or I'm in a bad mood. Or it's a day that ends in 'y'." He shrugged as if to say that he was powerless to resist.

Wilson sank down on the sofa next to House and leaned in to kiss him briefly. "Well, that's a great weight off my mind."

"So," House said after a minute, "Does this mean you're not getting me a stripper?"


	7. July

**July 4th**

"Are these even legal?" Wilson asked with horrified joy, staring into the large cardboard box House had just plunked on top of the staff evaluation he'd been trying to fill out.

"Of course. In the former Soviet Union." House trailed a loving finger over the roman candles, rockets, snakes, black cats, smoke bombs, air bombs, fountains and, of course, sparklers. "We are going to take these babies and blow some shit up as our forefathers intended."

"Where, exactly? I'm pretty sure your landlord frowns on explosives." Wilson pulled the evaluation out from under the box; he'd really been hoping to have these completed today and it was already half-past five.

"My cousin owns thirty acres half an hour out of town." House snatched the paperwork from Wilson's hand.

"And he's invited us to use it?" Wilson sounded dubious that any of House's relatives would invite him anywhere, or even acknowledge blood ties.

"Well, he probably won't arrest us if he catches us, if that's what you're asking. Come on, Cuddy's in a meeting; now's the perfect time to make a getaway." House made his way around the desk and perched next to Wilson's elbow, making any kind of actual work impossible. No one did distracting quite like House. "We'll grab some burgers on the way out; it'll be a regular date."

"Does this mean I have to let you feel me up in the back seat?" Wilson tried, and almost succeeded, to sound like he genuinely objected to being 'felt up.'

"But of course. And if I pay for the burgers, you have to put out, too," House leered.

"My virtue is safe then, seeing as how that's _never_ happened," Wilson shot back, surveying the pile of paperwork on his desk, obviously torn. He really needed to get this done.

"Aw. Don't make me beg," House said huskily. Wilson sighed; he already knew the inevitable conclusion of this discussion. It was really only a question of how long he'd make House wait before agreeing. The pile of files sat on his desk, a silent admonition.

Screw it. "Okay," he agreed, and then amended, "But I'm driving," before House could think his victory complete.

It took them considerably longer to get there than House had estimated. In fairness, it probably wouldn't have if Wilson hadn't taken the wrong exit out of town, a mistake that he would probably never live down. The beer-run added to their total time too. Plus the going back for matches.

Finally, though, they pulled up an unmarked gravel road that House insisted led to his cousin's property. Overgrown fields threatened to swallow the choked path back up and weeds thwacked along the side of Wilson's car.

"Are you sure this is a place?" Wilson asked, when they came to a rusted red gate impeding their way. He turned off the ignition and wondered if it would be worth the effort to try and talk House into abandoning this misadventure. But once set on a path of destruction, House could not be swayed.

"Sure it is." House was already on his way out. "Leave the car, grab the works," he called, managing to scramble over the offending gate with an agility beyond most of the cane-wielding set. Wilson followed more slowly, trying to avoid getting his loafers muddy and awkwardly carting the box of explosives.

They found a clearing pretty quickly, or at least a patch of bare ground and what was probably a leftover fire-pit that would serve nicely for their pyrotechnics. Wilson ended up being the one actually setting things off. House explained that he couldn't make a quick enough getaway should things go horribly wrong; he failed to elaborate on how likely he thought that was. So Wilson lit the fuses while House shouted advice about technique and aesthetics from several hundred feet away. Wilson quickly learned that lighting fireworks of dubious quality and even more dubious legality was closer to an art than a science. His family had always celebrated the Fourth of July in a more demure fashion, with a garden party and lemonade in a cut-crystal punchbowl, thus his previous experience was limited to the sparklers he and he cousins had been allowed to run around on the back lawns with.

There was something to be said for the thrill of the explosion, the spangle of sparks raining down in a fleeting glitter, Wilson had to grudgingly admit. However, there was considerably less to be said for the panic when a freshly lit firecracker tipped over before take-off.

"I don't suppose you thought to bring a fire extinguisher." Wilson had vivid footage of raging wildfires playing in his head, and, okay, they were usually in place out west, but he really didn't want to be responsible for the first New Jersey blaze in recorded history.

"Quit worrying. It looks like rain anyway," House retorted. Of course, that just gave Wilson something new to worry about, for indeed the sky had that gray, laden look that always promised a downpour. House rolled his eyes in one of those expressions that managed to convey his absolute scorn when he couldn't be bothered to actually put it into words. "Relax, that's the last of 'em anyway. Looks like we failed to do any real damage. Oh well, there's always next year."

Wilson sank to the ground, having given up on keeping his work clothes clean. He didn't want to know what the drycleaner's would think. "There's something sad and desperate about grown men enjoying third-rate explosives this much," Wilson asserted.

"Yeah. Almost as sad as a guy who's sleeping with his crippled best friend as place holder until he can find the next missus."

Even after years of walking the razor's edge of friendship with House, the comment caught Wilson unprepared and left him breathless. "You're not a place holder," was the first thing he could think of to say, a lame comeback if ever there was one.

"So you're going to tell the next thing with long legs and a perky rack that comes along you'd rather sleep with an aging cripple?" Somehow it was the off-hand way in which he said it that stung most of all.

Wilson rose and started gathering the burnt-out ends of spent firecrackers. "I wasn't going to use those exact words, no. But something along those lines."

"Leave it, Wilson," House said, referring to Wilson's attempted clean up.

"What will your cousin think?" Wilson said, automatically falling into responsible adult mode.

"You know, kids these days," House said gravely. "They've got no respect. I blame the parents."

But Wilson didn't get a chance to respond, because that was when the rain hit. They made for the car, but House couldn't exactly run and Wilson wouldn't leave him behind, despite House's bitching that he was a moron. By the time they reached it, they were both hopelessly soaked. Wilson took a morose satisfaction in it; glad the weather so perfectly reflected his mood. The rain drummed a gentle tattoo on the roof of the Volvo. Wilson fit the key in the ignition but didn't start the engine. Gazing out the window, he appeared utterly engrossed in watching droplets wind their way down the dusty glass. House shifted uncomfortably and tried ineffectually to wipe his face off with the hem of his soaking t-shirt. Finally the silence got to him.

"Are we just going to sit here? Because you can give me the silent treatment just as easily at home and in dry clothes."

"I'm not punishing you." Wilson's voice was weary. He reached out and drew a squiggle on the rapidly fogging window. With the world outside a gray-green blur, it felt like they were the only two people in existence. "I'm not even mad."

"Oh, _God,_" House drug the word out, making it two syllables of utter disgust. "You're _disappointed _in me."

Wilson continued to watch the rain run down the windshield in dirty rivulets as though deeply fascinated by the changing patterns of tributaries. He kept his mouth shut, trying to avoid giving House any more ammunition.

Finally he said, "No, I'm not disappointed in _you._" He started the car, pretending that navigating the muddy road occupied his full attention so that he wouldn't have to see if House caught the faint stressed he'd placed on 'you' and what it meant.


	8. August

**August 10th**

Wilson had never been a particularly devout man. He'd attended temple with his family, observed the niceties to please his mother; he even found the ritual comforting. But as for God's presence in his own life, Wilson was dubious. He'd watched too many good people die of mindless disease to still believe in a benevolent God. And now that he was single and his parents lived in another state, he'd quit attending all together. Which was why it was unusual that he now found himself sitting in a synagogue.

House would mock him if he found him here now but as House avoided religious institutions like the plague, more so actually, Wilson felt pretty safe. Maybe that was why he'd wound up here. It was neutral territory. His office, his apartment, his favourite bar- all held inescapable reminders of House. Normally, that was reassuring. Tonight it was maddening. Wilson sat; the warm smell of old building and well-polished wood was comforting.

House had come home from work in a foul mood. His patient had died, and though the autopsy had provided the final puzzle piece, it was small consolation. House had denied his ill-temper, but he'd broken out the single malt. It was sitting on the piano when Wilson had let himself in, a half-empty sign House had given himself completely over to the melancholia that always accompanied him. It was a struggle for Wilson to hold his tongue on nights like these. House was utterly incorrigible, the more Wilson tried to cheer him, or at least keep him from testing his liver's ability to process alcohol, the further House withdrew. It was painful to watch but also infuriating- if House would only... Wilson sighed and stifled the thought. He'd reheated a plate of chicken and roast potatoes from last night, trading it out for the whiskey on the piano, checked to see if House's cell was on and left. He hadn't had a particular destination in mind when he'd gotten in the car, and it wasn't until he was half way there that he realized he was headed toward his old synagogue.

Wilson stood, his lower back complaining about having spent so long on a cushion-less pew. He moved as quietly as possible, though he was the only one there. The slight scuff of his shoes on the tile floor seemed an intrusion. Leaving, he was mildly surprised to realize he actually did feel just the tiniest bit better. More peaceful.

It was an emotion that lasted only as long as it took him to get back to his car. Something on the floor of the passenger's side caught his eye. Curious, he reached under the seat, producing the familiar blue and white DVD cases of their local rental place. _Rear Window_ and _Bringing Up Baby_ had been Wilson's selections; _Psycho Beach Party_ and some bizarre Korean horror flick had been House's. All were movies House had said he'd returned a week ago.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath and counted slowly to ten. They were just movies. The late fee nothing more than an annoyance. He reached ten, but felt no calmer. House had once said that their relationship was in exercise in Wilson's self-delusion. At the time he'd argued, if you could call tying a maraschino cherry stem in a knot with your tongue an argument, but now… He threw the car in reverse, narrowly missing a pedestrian. He waved apologetically to the woman and pulled out of the parking lot at with caution. He paid more attention to traffic than was strictly necessary, atoning for his earlier recklessness. The movie place only took him a little out of his way, but that he had to go at all merely renewed his pique.

He returned the movies to the drive-by drop box, glad that he didn't have to go in to the actual store. He wasn't too keen to be seen here anytime soon, which was why he'd assigned House the task of returning the movies in the first place. After the incident last time they were here, it'd be awhile before he'd feel comfortable entering the premises. Sick of fighting over whether to watch TMC or MTV, Wilson had decided to grab a couple of movies and some Tai on the way home. House hadn't wanted to come but was unwilling to give Wilson complete power over movie selection. It had taken him nearly forty-five minutes to choose, and then only after giving a rather lengthy critique of modern cinema. Wilson had finally gotten him to pick something out and herded him to the checkout. The kid at the register had looked at his hand on House's elbow and a look had flickered across his face- that look of speculation and scorn. Wilson had always gotten that look on his public outings with House and it had always vaguely irritated him, but now that the assumptions people made about them were true, its sting was far more biting. He'd dropped House's elbow and hurriedly dug out his membership card, putting a more seemly distance between himself and House.

House had allowed it and Wilson had momentarily thought that he hadn't even noticed. But he was suspiciously enthusiastic as he bid the cashier goodnight and forged on through the security detectors, leaving Wilson to collect the movies and trail after. Outside the glass store-front, he'd stopped so quickly that Wilson had nearly run over him. He'd turned and grabbed Wilson, hauling him in with a hand on the back of his neck. The kiss had been hot and messy and House hadn't broken it until they were both feeling lightheaded. It ended as quickly as it had started; he'd turned without comment and made his way to the car. Wilson had stood dumbfounded, baffled by House's sudden demonstrativeness. That was when he'd caught sight of the kid, along with the line of customers waiting for service; they'd clearly gotten the whole show. Wilson had given a half-hearted wave, acknowledging his audience and then trotted after House as quickly as what was left of his dignity would allow.

Wilson slowed to a stop as the light changed from yellow to red. After a moment's hesitation he got out his phone. Six rings, seven…his fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel as he waited for House to pick up. Not that he particularly thought House would. And sure enough, he was directed over to voice mail. House's message was just an obnoxiously long clip from "I Wanna Be Sedated."

"Hey," Wilson ventured after the tone. Now that he'd called, he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. "You forgot to take those movies back. Yeah, I'm sure it just slipped your mind. You're probably real broken up about it, but don't worry; I don't mind." Wilson tried not think about the derisive look House would get when he listened to this message. "And either quit drinking tonight or you don't get to take your meds." Nagging wouldn't annoy House as much as genuine concern. "I am not taking care of that damn rat if you off yourself. K, then..." He realized the pause was getting longer and longer and he either had to say some thing or wrap it up. "Love you." He shut his phone with a snap.


End file.
